


thesis of the still heart

by Sintharius



Series: Sergei Alekseyevich Dragunov [5]
Category: Tekken (Video Games)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Gen, Implied/Referenced Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-12
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-19 12:42:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29999514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sintharius/pseuds/Sintharius
Summary: When a mission goes wrong and Dragunov is left to clean up the pieces.
Series: Sergei Alekseyevich Dragunov [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1483805
Kudos: 1





	thesis of the still heart

**Author's Note:**

> Anon request on Tumblr: "What was the worst thing that happened to Sergei during a capture?"
> 
> Might be subjected to later edits.

He’s dying.

Fire blossoms in his lungs with each breath. His limbs are on the verge of giving out, pain shooting up his arms and legs every time he moves.

Every step forward makes him shiver with pain at the effort, but he keeps going.

_Don’t think of the pain. Don’t stop for anything._

The entirety of his sharp-honed focus narrows down to his own steps. One foot in front of the other.

Snow crunches under the weight of his boots. Even in the chill of winter, he’s burning up with fever. He wants nothing more than to sit down and rest.

But he doesn’t. If he takes even just a moment to rest, he will never make it back.

_If I stop here, I’m going to die._

There’s blood on his hands.

Some of it is his own. Some from the terrorists, dead in the building he left behind.

And some of it were from the men he failed to save.

_The only way to survival is forward._

***

It was a disaster.

Command thought it was a regular mission. Go in, dismantle terrorist cell, collect intel, get out. The only reason Dragunov was sent with them was insurance to make sure the mission was done.

They hadn’t expected to walk into a trap.

_We were led to a slaughter._

The enemy was waiting for them. It was a trap laid out to catch Spetsnaz off guard and hopefully thinning their ranks, though they have not counted on the White Angel of Death being present among them. Not that it made any difference as the agents were gassed and captured the moment their bodies hit the ground.

As skilled as he may be, Sergei Dragunov is still human.

He briefly wondered if Command knew the mission was a trap before blacking out.

_Did Command get false intel? Or is there a mole in our ranks?_

Ice cold water on his face forced him back to consciousness.

The captors were asking something, or taunting him about walking right in their door. Dragunov chose to feign disorientation – his mind already kicking back into full swing at the moment he woke up - in order to buy time for him to observe his surroundings.

His team was gone, probably got taken away and separated. He’s seated in a chair with his hands tied to the sides- and judging from the pressure the ropes are putting on his wrists, the bindings were pretty well done too. Something metallic glinted in his peripheral vision-

A man backhanded him, and he glares at the offender in response. Blood roared in his ears, but Dragunov forced himself to stay still. No point in fighting back, especially when he could pick out their motives from what they cared to tell him.

More talking… taunting him about letting his team die for no reason. Seems like his reputation preceded him, and they know that the White Angel of Death will not cough up information. Instead, they have chosen to torture him – in the hopes that the other members of his team would give up something useful. Break the weaker links.

The room had obvious one-way mirrors set into the wall, and he wondered if the terrorists were forcing the agents to watch on the other side. Even if they were, he trusted them not to divulge secrets.

_Better to die than compromise._

Hands came down on his shoulders to hold him in place, and he saw the flash of a knife-

Dragunov bit back a scream as sharp metal dug into his arm.

***

When the terrorists realized cutting up the White Angel of Death would not give them the results they wanted, they had resorted to drugging him – all while being watched like some sick spectator sport. Whatever they used on him certainly did a number on Dragunov’s memories of the event. Even now, he cannot clearly recall what happened after they shot him up; everything was a mess of colors, noise, and hostile physical contact.

Through all of it, there were something he did remember clearly.

The moment when they started shooting.

It had started with another man coming into the room and yelling at the thugs, while Dragunov was still trying to get his bearing back after being slapped in the face – again. Something about not being able to extract information from their prisoners, and that they need to hurry the fuck up… he could only guess that they had limited time before Spetsnaz inevitably came knocking.

Procedure demands that the White Angel of Death be retrieved or terminated in the event of enemy capture; former is preferable, but the latter would be done in case he is compromised. He was not sure how long he could retain his mental acuity… not with whatever in his systems breaking down his restraints one by one.

_Feels like they’re trying to get me drunk. Except that I’m in hostile territory, and it’s not pleasant._

_What is going to become of me?_

The sound of footsteps reached his ears, even as the pounding of his heart drowned out background noise. He turned slightly to see one of the agents in his team being dragged along the ground by two of the earlier thugs.

His body made a sickening splat noise as it made contact with the floor, in front of the captain. Dragunov didn’t bat an eye at his legs – or the bloody mess that was all what remained of it.

“Make sure they are taken care of. No use trying to make them talk, what a waste of my time.” The boss man again. Seemed like he had decided to have the Spetsnaz team killed after failing to get any of them to give up information. At least if they all died, then Dragunov could be at peace with the fact that none of them compromised the agency.

The agent mouthed something to him as their eyes met. _I am sorry, sir. We failed you._

One of the thugs drew a handgun from his coat, took aim at the fallen agent, and fired.

Something inside him snapped.

Cold fury – unrestrained now that the drug had peeled away the last of his self-control – flooded him. He shut his eyes, trying to stay afloat of the urge to kill – his fingers aching to beat the terrorist in front of him to a pulp, _kill all of them, take our payback in blood_ – before the terrorist noticed and shot him too.

Taming his bloodlust wasn’t easy, but he managed it somehow. Years of training and the constant reminder that he could not do anything in his current state probably helped, in that regard.

Now he needs an escape.

Dragunov flexed his fingers, then his hands as much as he can; some pain from the open wounds on his forearms moving, but nothing too crippling. At least the cuts were shallow enough to avoid his tendons and nerves. He gave himself an estimate of a day before pain and exhaustion catch up to him, if he did not sustain more injuries during the process.

_I can only hope to finish the job before my body gives out._

The thug had noticed movements from their captive, and moved closer for a stare down contest. Trying to intimidate him back into silence, perhaps.

“Finally woke up now, huh? Should’ve killed them earlier if we knew it’d make you talk.”

_Time for a degree of violence._

The terrorists had made a fatal mistake in leaving Dragunov’s feet unbound.

Dragunov swung his leg up, right exactly at crotch height. As the man doubled over in pain, he slammed his boot into the bastard’s knee, causing him to fall on top of the agent.

The flimsy chair snapped, unable to hold up the weight of two grown men.

At the moment his back hit the floor, Dragunov twisted his way out of the man landing on him, before grabbing the poor sod’s head with his legs.

It was easy to just snap his neck like a twig.

The other thing he remembered was opening the door to the interrogation room – it wasn’t locked, likely because they did not expect Dragunov to escape – and-

_It’s too quiet, and there’s the stench of blood._

-finding his team’s bodies.

The agents were thrown in a hazardous pile. Some bodies showed signs of physical torture, some died with their eyes wide open. None of them were spared.

He briefly wondered if they killed his team before or after they shot the agent in front of his face, before putting the thought away. No use thinking of that now, and he had business to do.

Dragunov’s memories were blurry after, his intense focus giving way to the familiar routines of combat.

One by one, the terrorists fell at the hands of the White Angel of Death. It did not take long for him to clean out the whole place; fear and isolation made for easy prey. His barely restrained bloodlust might have made his kills messier than he normally would have done, but he could not find it in himself to care.

There was no one left to watch him, after all.

***

He has been walking for hours – how long, he didn’t keep track – before the silhouette of the Spetsnaz encampment emerges in the distance.

Something sounds like buried footsteps in the distance, but he can’t make out anything between his own heartbeat and the wind howling in his ears. If it is this close to the base, then it’s probably friendly agents… and he’s too exhausted to do anything else if it’s not-

“…it’s Captain Dragunov! …call command…”

A sigh of relief. The pain and exhaustion are making themselves known, and his vision is getting spotty; Dragunov manages to not pass out right on the spot, but barely.

Someone stops in front of him and wraps a thick winter coat over his shoulders. He doesn’t have the strength to look up, but he didn’t need to; the fabric smells of familiar pine and spearmint.

“ _Welcome home, Sergei._ ”

He closes his eyes and lets himself go.

**Author's Note:**

> I keep writing things at 11 PM...


End file.
